


Promethean Fire

by rynling



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Skyward Sword Speculation, This Does Not End Well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynling/pseuds/rynling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Demise hadn't always been a demigod but was once a man? A series of interactions between Hylia and Demise that ends in tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promethean Fire

The first time she saw him, he was nothing more than a scrap of a boy collecting rupees on the fringes of an audience that had gathered around a troupe of traveling performers. He was small of stature, but he was quick, and clever, and his eyes were lit with a fire that was exceedingly rare in those with mortal flesh. She watched as he wove and darted through the assembled bodies. When gratuity was denied him, he would lower his head and move on, only to circle back and play some childish prank – unknotting bootlaces, tucking shirttails into undergarments, placing discarded fruit rinds underfoot. He never made his way to her, but this was not odd, as she was in the habit of rendering herself unnoticeable. She thought he hadn't seen her, but after the performance was over and the crowd had thinned, he faced her and bowed with a grin and a theatrical flourish before rejoining his company. 

The second time she saw him was during a solstice parade held on the avenue leading to her temple. He was young still, but he had grown, and she recognized him instantly as he danced with flaming swords at the center of a floating platform. This was an old art that required great dexterity, and his skill drew many flowers from those assembled to watch him. Later in the evening, as she walked disguised among the revelers, she saw him presenting these same flowers to passers-by, producing them as if by magic from the clothing of those who approached him. When he drew close to pull a bright and flawless desert rose from their sleeves or sashes, he came away with more than their admiration. He had become a thief, then. With his talent, he need not walk this path, and she wondered who held the strings that dangled him over the purses of strangers, and when he would grow strong enough cut them. Suddenly he was before her. She waved him away, telling him that she had no need for his favors, but he smiled and presented her with a flower drawn from his own clothing, a delicate lily fashioned of gold wire and milky glass. 

The third time she saw him, he was a dashing young man wearing the mask of a horned roc at a duchess's masquerade. His hair was loosely and rakishly bound, but his clothes were finely cut. He was charming and bold, but he kept to the sides of the hall and its outlying garden, where he was welcomed into groups of nobles much older than he. She was spun in circles of her own, laughing and toasting and bestowing kind words. She had little patience for the transactions of influence that such parties were meant to facilitate, yet she still found herself meeting his eyes throughout the night. When they were introduced, he invited her to dance, and she accepted. He said nothing of their prior meetings but kept their conversation as light as his feet as he swept her across the floor. When the music ended, he kissed her signet ring, enfolding a scarlet feather in her palm before passing her off to another partner. 

The fourth time she saw him was at a gathering of the senate. She rarely attended, for it depressed her to see women and men argue over inconsequential banalities as if their short and ephemeral lives depended on them. At this meeting, however, she had every intention of exercising her rights of divinity, for she feared that her people were on the verge of rousing themselves for war. When he stood to speak she could see he had matured. His shoulders were broad, and lines had been traced onto his face; he was older now than she would ever be. He commanded the attention of the assembly, and his words fell like stars from the heavens, kindling passion. She alone kept a cool head, impressed less by his position than by the strength of the will behind it, and she held her tongue. When he found her later, as she knew he would, she asked him if his rhetorical force was truly necessary. "If they must have their battle," he answered, "would you not prefer that it were waged indoors?" She shook her head and turned away, for it would not be so simple, nor had it ever been. Still, she would give him his chance. Perhaps he would be the one to set history along a different course. 

The fifth time she saw him, he came to her directly. "I have been watching you," he said. "You are so beautiful, yet you look so lonely," he said. "Tell me where you come from, and why you can't go home. Tell me why you're here," he said. Transfixed by the smoldering embers of his eyes, her heart melted, and she spoke her story. The telling was long, but he listened, perhaps more intently than anyone ever had. His hands and mouth were hot on hers, and when he touched her he lit fires under his fingers. He warmed her body, and when he entered her she knew what it was like to be alive and to be constantly dying, constantly burning the fuel of life. She burned with him, shedding luminescence. 

Afterward she woke to find her chamber, high in her temple's tallest tower, pulsing with golden light. She cried out and raced to the altar, where he stood before the Triforce, wearing his dark shadow like a robe. She wanted to warn him, to explain why this great and terrible artifact had been sealed away, but she was too late. He touched the shining pyramid. The earth shook, and he was transformed. He seemed to expand, to swell. Vicious teeth ripped from his mouth. Crystalline scales jutted from his arms and legs. His blood boiled, steam rising from what could no longer be called skin. He roared, and his hair burst into flame. He had wished for power, and now he had it. Why he had desired it and what he hoped to achieve no longer mattered. 

The sixth time she saw him would be the last. She cried, and her tears were cold.


End file.
